Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Evening came in due course in Mr Darcy’s house, as though it knew better than to present itself too early or too late.
Elizabeth felt it in the way the lamps were lit before she thought to notice the dark, in the even cadence of the servants’ steps as dinner was laid, in the curious strengthening of her own body as the day passed without the familiar ebb and surge of weakness.
Nearly a full day under this roof, and she felt, quite unmistakably, perhaps the best she had ever felt in her life.
Which only made the awkwardness sharper.
She was keenly aware, as they took their places at table, of how well she must appear.
Too well, certainly, for the trouble she had occasioned.
She had apologised twice already; Darcy had dismissed it both times with a courtesy so firm it brooked no argument.
Bingley, for his part, appeared delighted beyond reason to have them all gathered thus, as though illness, abrupt travel, and uncertainty were merely pretexts for conviviality.
Darcy sat nearest her. Not at the head—he had insisted on a less formal setting for this evening, a square table, of all things, with neither head nor foot. Close enough that she could see him clearly whenever she lifted her eyes.
It was then that she heard it.
Not loud. Not persistent. Just a brief interruption of breath, carefully smothered behind a hand.
She looked up at once.
Darcy’s hand had already dropped back to the table. His expression was composed, almost deliberately so, but there was a faint tension about his mouth that had not been there earlier.
“Mr Darcy, are you quite well?” Miss Bingley asked. “You sound—”
“It is nothing,” Darcy said, too quickly to convince anyone at the table. “A chill, perhaps. I went riding in the cold the other day.”
Elizabeth watched him over the rim of her glass. She had never heard him cough before. Indeed, he seemed like a man whom illness would never dare to trouble.
Dinner proceeded, if not smoothly then at least politely.
Jane spoke little, though she smiled often—mostly at Mr Bingley.
Miss Bingley watched Darcy with narrowed attention, her appetite visibly diminished.
Bingley filled the spaces with cheerful speculation—about physicians in town, about the weather, about how fortunate it was that Elizabeth seemed so very much herself again.
Darcy ate sparingly. He spoke when spoken to, but his attention wandered, his gaze straying now and again toward the sideboard, toward the door, toward nothing Elizabeth could identify with any clarity. And once or twice, she was sure she saw a muscle spasm ticking his cheek.
At last, as the servants withdrew with the first course, Bingley leaned back in his chair and said, with the mild curiosity of a man who had no notion he was touching upon anything of consequence, “Forgive my curiosity, Darcy, but I saw there was a messenger this afternoon. I caught the name of the sender, I think. Harrowe?”
The effect was immediate. Darcy did not cough. He did not speak. For the briefest instant, he did not move at all.
Then his eyes lifted—and found hers.
The look held no accusation, no appeal. Only a stark awareness, as though some private calculation had just been interrupted by the presence of an unanticipated variable.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened slightly on her fork.
Harrowe?
The name stirred something half-buried. She saw, all at once, her father’s shelves, the slim, worn volume he had bought her when she lay delirious at Netherfield. She remembered the feel of that book in her hands. The lines she had quoted—lightly, carelessly—at the Netherfield ball.
And she remembered Darcy’s face then. The exact moment his manner toward her had altered. Not in anger. In something colder. More guarded—and that had been the last time they spoke at all before he left for London.
She dropped her gaze to her plate.
Darcy answered Bingley at last, his voice now mastered enough to pass for boredom. “A matter of research. Nothing of present concern.”
“Oh!” Bingley said, satisfied at once. “I wondered if it was something to do with that business you said called you back. Not that it’s any business of mine, of course.
I confess, I had far too little to occupy my mind today.
Perhaps we shall drive around Hyde Park tomorrow.
What do you think of that, Miss Bennet? We might even try ice skating if you like.
Caroline is an excellent skater, are you not, Caroline? ”
Miss Bingley confirmed that last with a pride that seemed to seek Darcy’s attention. Jane answered the notion with pleasure. Elizabeth did not look up again. She ate, she listened, she smiled when required.
The footman entered between courses and bent to murmur at Darcy’s shoulder. A sealed letter lay upon the salver. Darcy glanced at it once—no more—and then, without comment, slid it to Elizabeth.
Miss Bingley’s fork paused midway to her lips. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “Was that not delivered to you, Mr Darcy?”
“It was,” he answered evenly. “But it is not mine.”
Elizabeth hesitated before taking it. The superscription was unmistakable. “An express from my father? Why would he charge it to your account, sir?”
“Pay that no mind,” Darcy replied, already returning his attention to his plate. “No doubt a reply to the one Bingley sent this morning.”
Elizabeth broke the seal with fingers that trembled only a little and unfolded the page. Her father’s hand leapt out at once—firm, familiar, and oddly steady given all that had occurred.
She read quickly. Relief came first, sharp and undeniable. Then concern. Then something quieter, more complicated. She folded the letter again and laid it beside her plate.
“Well?” Jane asked gently.
“Papa is reassured,” Elizabeth said. “He thanks Mr Bingley for his care, and Mr Darcy for his hospitality. He will come when he is able, but he is content, for now, that I am better.”
“Indeed, ‘tis a wonder,” Miss Bingley said as she raised her glass to her lips.
A faint, involuntary sound escaped Darcy before he could suppress it—another short cough, quickly masked by the lift of his napkin.
Elizabeth’s gaze slipped up to him.
He had gone still. Too still. One hand rested on the table’s edge as though he had placed it there to keep from toppling over.
“Are you quite well?” she whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
“Perfectly,” Darcy said. The word came a shade too quickly. “The air has been unkind to me, nothing more.”
Elizabeth was not persuaded. She found herself watching him now without meaning to, aware of small things she would once have overlooked: the way he swallowed before speaking, the pause he took before lifting his glass, the careful economy of his movements.
She let her eyes fall again, but the letter lay folded beside her plate like a pall she could not ignore.
She waited. Counted the movements of the table. The clink of china. Miss Bingley’s voice. Bingley’s laugh. Darcy’s silence.
At last, when no one was watching her—when Darcy’s attention had been deliberately bent elsewhere—she slipped the paper into her lap and opened it again.
My dearest Lizzy,
I am relieved beyond measure to hear that you are easier. That you are not merely easier, but yourself again; clear-headed, lively, impatient with fuss. That alone tells me more than any physician might.
Her throat tightened. She read on.
I cannot pretend I am easy in my mind about London.
I am easier knowing you are not there alone, and easier still knowing whose roof shelters you.
I confessed to you once before that I have long suspected (quietly, and without proof) that Mr Darcy’s presence answers something in you that nothing else does.
You will forgive a father for noticing such things, but I am gratified to hear that in this case, at least, it seems to be true.
Elizabeth stopped reading long enough to take a bite, smile at Jane, and pretend to be entirely engaged with the meal. Then the letter pulled her attention once more.
But ease is not cure. I have been consulting with Mr Wickham, whom I have found to be a sympathetic and rational ear.
He is of the opinion (and I cannot dismiss it lightly) that whatever comfort Mr Darcy provides may be only provisional.
He believes there is a reckoning bound up with that gentleman which, if delayed or mishandled, may cost you more than you now gain.
Her eyes moved faster now.
You must therefore be watchful. Not fearful, but observant. Attend to yourself. Keep note of what strengthens you, and what leaves you diminished. Be cautious of any moment that feels too much, whether of relief or of strain.
She felt heat rise beneath her collar. She stole a sip of wine, but her eyes scarcely left her lap.
Once Mary is wed, I intend to come for you myself. If at any moment before that you feel alarm or a return of your malaise, you are to go at once to your Aunt and Uncle Gardiner. I have written them and trust them entirely. You need not explain yourself beyond what is necessary.
The page ended there. No flourish. No reassurance. Just the weight of his care, set squarely upon her shoulders.
Elizabeth folded the letter again with care and slipped it back into the folds of her gown.
Darcy lifted his glass, then set it down untouched. His hand returned to the table’s edge, fingers spread, as though grounding himself by habit alone.
Her father thought him her shelter.
Wickham thought him her danger.
And Darcy—who met her gaze then, only for a moment—looked like a man bearing a cost he would not challenge and could not afford, yet paying it willingly all the same.
Darcy declined Bingley’s invitation to sport with a civility so automatic it scarcely touched his mind. Billiards required motion without purpose, talk without consequence. He could not trust himself to either.